Branches whipped at his face as Sebek ran. He didn’t care. He just kept running, despite feeling like his heart could explode any second and the burning in his lungs. The witch’s guns still echoed in his ears, along with that awful thundercrack that blew Wojtek’s head clean off.

  And Kazimier… She toyed with him like a cat with a mouse. Let him think he had the upper hand, then fired several shots into his arm and hand, forcing the [Fireball] in his grasp to slam into his face, obliterating his head in a burst of flame.

  His foot caught on a root and he tripped. His hands sank into something soft. The smell hit him before the sight did—like a pig rolled in garlic, then left to rot. He gagged, swallowing hard, and forced himself to look down.

  What was left of the creature’s face had been blasted open, blackened and blistered, but the horns were still intact. The legs, too—goatlike, mottled, bent wrong at the joints. Sebek stared in horror.

  The Swamp Devil.

  The thing that had terrorized the area for twenty years. Dragging children from their beds in the night. The villages near the swamp were mostly abandoned now, but it didn’t matter. It found them anyway.

  Sebek remembered when it took his cousin—that smell, like rotting pig and garlic. How his uncle threw himself at the thing only to be torn apart in seconds, how his aunt had been slammed into the wall so hard she never walked right again. None of the parties who were sent to hunt it ever came back. Not one. Eventually people just stopped trying, and everyone avoided going near the swamp entirely.

  But the Church didn’t care about those stories. They’d gotten reports of a witch in the marsh, so Kazimier’s squad was sent in anyway.

  And now it was dead. Just lying there in the mud, half-covered by leaves. Face blown off like it was nothing. Like what happened to Wojtek. Like what happened to Kazimier.

  Like she could’ve done to him.

  He scrambled back, whispering prayers to Stvora as if the name alone could shield him. Stvora was supposed to be everywhere, supposed to see everything, know everything. But here, in this swamp, it felt like He was blind. Like He had turned away.

  Like she had pushed Him aside.

  That thought hit Sebek harder than the stench of death or the slaughter of his squad. He needed something to hold on to, but it felt like Stvora wasn’t listening. Where was He? Why wasn’t He watching? Why wasn’t He there when they needed Him most? They were doing all this for Stvora, after all.

  They said Stvora was a shield against darkness. But after what he’d witnessed—after what she’d done—could even Stvora protect against someone like that? Could this woman really be stopped, or was she something more? He’d never seen a witch with power like that. Maybe she wasn’t just a witch at all.

  She moved like a goddess, looked like one. Beautiful, powerful, untouchable. How could someone who appeared to be barely older than him hold that much power?

  He had to warn the bishop. The Grand Inquisitor. Everyone.

  ***

  Sebek didn’t remember running. Just mud, branches in his face, blood in his mouth, then cold stone and candlelight.

  He burst through the heavy doors of the church, the scent of incense in the air. He stumbled inside, legs giving out. His breath came in ragged gasps. A woman shouted something. Another rose from a pew. The words didn’t register.

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  The floor was smooth stone, cold under his knees. Clean. Candles flickered. All around him were statues of saints and golden icons. Someone recoiled as he passed. Another muttered a prayer under their breath and stepped back like he carried the plague.

  “Bishop!” he wheezed. “I need—I need to see the bishop!”

  One of them tried to grab his arm. He shoved them off and dragged himself forward until he saw the robes—deep red and gold.

  Sebek clawed at the hem. “Bishop Sokólski, please, you have to listen. She—she killed Kazimier.”

  Bishop Tadeusz Sokólski stopped and turned slowly.

  He was lean and angular, wearing red and gold robes. His face was pale, almost gaunt, with high cheekbones and thin lips. A golden chain ran down the center of his chest, glinting between folds of velvet. His eyes—cold, sharp, pale blue—settled on Sebek with disdain.

  He looked down his nose at the filthy, panting wreck groveling at his feet. “Who are you?”

  “Sebek Zalevski. Scriptor with the Detachment of Purification. Swamp assignment. Kazimier’s squad.” His voice broke. “There’s a witch. Strongest I’ve ever seen.”

  The bishop raised a brow. “Kazimier is dead?”

  Sebek nodded frantically. "They're all dead. She played with us from the moment we arrived."

  His voice shook. "She opened the door smiling. Stood there answering our questions with obvious lies, like we were a joke. 'I'm not a witch,' she said, while standing there with silver eyes, talking to the frog at her feet."

  He looked up at the bishop. "Right in front of us. Didn't even try to hide it. Like she wanted us to know what she was. Like she was daring us to do something about it."

  He shook his head. “She was stunning. Long black hair, olive skin, silver-white eyes that felt like they could see everything. Beautiful. How could someone like that be so deadly? So cruel?”

  The bishop slowly nodded. “The witch may wear many faces: maiden, mother, crone. Beauty is but one of them, a mask to disarm and deceive. All of them serve the same purpose: to lure the unwary into her grasp.”

  Sebek wiped at his mouth with a trembling hand, then winced, sharp pain flaring up beneath his eyes. His nose was broken. He’d forgotten, or hadn’t noticed until now.

  “The Bear… I mean, Wojtek—” he swallowed. “Wojtek never stood a chance. I didn’t even see what happened. He reached for his sword and… there was a crack of thunder. One moment he was there, the next his head was gone. I didn’t even see her move.”

  “That’s not possible,” The bishop said.

  “It happened! I saw his head come off! Like the armor wasn’t even there.”

  He let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t know anything that could do that. Not to Wojtek. But she did.”

  He shook his head. “She was mocking us the entire time. Floating around like she was riding the wind. Playing with Kazimier.”

  Sebek’s voice dropped. “Unlike Wojtek, she took her time with him. Just to humiliate him. Every shot was precise, like God’s finger pressing him back into his place, forcing him to understand just how far beneath her he really was, and that she could end him whenever she pleased.”

  He took a deep breath. “And the fireballs… they passed right through her. Like she wasn’t even there. Like she was a ghost.”

  His hands were trembling again. “And then, when she’d made her point, she used his own magic against him. Turned it back on him. Made him blow himself up with his own [Fireball].”

  He looked up, tears in his eyes. “What foul magic could do that to a mage like Kazimier? To a Senior Inquisitor?”

  Bishop Sokólski’s fingers tapped lightly against his chin. His pale blue eyes narrowed just a fraction as he regarded Sebek. “If all this is true, why are you still alive?”

  Sebek looked down at his feet and swallowed again. “Because she chose to let me live.”

  He caught a flicker of motion to his left and flinched. Just a woman leaving the church. Not her. Not the witch. But his heart wouldn’t slow down.

  “I ran,” he continued. “Every step I waited for the shot in my back, but it never came. She wanted you to know what she’s done, and that she’s coming for us.”

  The bishop gave a dry laugh. “No one is that foolish. She knows what will happen next. She’ll be torn apart.”

  Sebek’s voice cracked. “No. No, you don’t understand. She—she killed the Swamp Devil.”

  The bishop frowned.

  “She killed it. I found the body on the way out. The face was blasted off, but the horns were still there, and so were the legs. It was the Swamp Devil, I’m sure of it.”

  He wiped his sleeve across his face, smearing the blood. “She placed it there, right where she knew I’d run.”

  He looked up at the bishop. “She wanted me to see what she’d done. She wanted us to know what she’s capable of.”

  For a moment, the bishop closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his expression hardened. He raised two fingers to his forehead—the gesture of the Eye. “Stvora, give us strength.”

  Then he turned to the man beside him. “Marcin. We need to arrange a meeting with Archbishop Vladislav Visnievski, Grand Inquisitor Borys Kruczek, and His Majesty King Boleswav. Immediately. Tell them… Bies has returned.”

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